


A Study in Oceans

by polonius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cute Kids, Gen, Kidlock, Neil Gaiman/Sherlock fusion, WIP, Weird Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polonius/pseuds/polonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I said, “What makes the ocean different to the sea?” <br/>“Bigger,” said my father. “An ocean is much bigger than the sea. Why?”<br/>“Just thinking,” I said. “Could you have an ocean that was as small as a pond?” </p>
<p>A Sherlock/Neil Gaiman fusion in which I basically take the idea behind Ocean at the End of the Lane and insert John and Sherlock and let them run wild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:  
> You don't have to read Ocean at the End of the Lane to understand this story, but I highly recommend it. It's a beautiful story and less than 200 pages so it won't even take much time out of your day. I essentially read that and then wrote this immediately afterward. The story's major plot points are very similar but I didn't precisely rewrite it, more like took a crayon and scribbled a bunch of things between the lines. And this is what happened-- Sherlock absolutely would NOT be the mature and powerful Lettie from the book, and would Absolutely be a bit of a shit breaking magical rules and generally invading John's life, so this is the result. 
> 
> Rated Teen because this is intended to take some dark, creepy turns down the line.

He was not supposed to be here. He knew that. In fact, he knew that he was supposed to be a few miles away, at the backyard wedding of his sister Harry to her longtime girlfriend, Clara. Yet here he was.

John fidgeted. His formal army uniform chafed a bit and the collar was too stiff for his liking. He had never worn it much before and had just pulled it out now to make up for his lack of fine clothing at the moment. But Harry had insisted that it made him look dashing. John felt far from dashing as he leaned heavily on his walking stick, wobbling down the hill towards the place he had not thought of in several years.

John had parked his car down the lane and picked his way gingerly through the woods to reach the pond, edging himself between the slats of the broken fence that lined the property and down the slopes that fell away to the peaceful waters below. The house at the top of the hill looked empty, and John couldn’t imagine that anyone still lived there after all this time.

_So much time…_

John halted by the edge of the water. He knew it was just a pond but for some reason as he looked at it he could only think, _what a small ocean_. The water was placid, a scattering of lily pads floating over the algae flecked water. There was an eerie calm about the place, yet John found it comforting. The worried questions of his family and friends seemed far away, silenced completely by a gentle breeze blowing ripples across the water.

He stared, and as he stared memories began to come back to him, thoughts and reasons for many things that he had long since forgotten to contemplate. There was something about the water, something beneath its surface—if he could only look deeper…

“Hello again, Dr. Watson.”

John turned around with a start, nearly dropping his cane. To his surprise, a familiar face was descending down the hill towards the pond. “Mrs. Holmes! I’m terribly sorry, you must think me so rude-- I don’t know what came over me.”

A frog croaked in the distance. John felt suddenly ridiculous. The decorative saber hanging from his belt clanged against his cane, a sharp sound in the quiet place.

He couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. This couldn’t be Mrs. Holmes, after all—it had been over twenty years since he had been a boy visiting this house, and the woman that stood before him now seemed as if she had not aged a day since.

“Hush now, stop babbling. You don’t have to explain anything to me.” The elderly woman stepped firmly to him, reaching up to touch his face with a calloused palm. “You are always welcome here.”

“You _are_ Mrs. Holmes, then?” John couldn’t quite tamp down his embarrassment. He shook his head, “Jesus, it’s been a long time hasn’t it?” He laughed, but stiffly. Old Mrs. Holmes simply smiled at him. Her look was so kind it almost hurt.

She tilted her head, a curious gesture, almost childlike, “Look at you, a handsome soldier.” The way she said it made John feel as if she was speaking of something more than his dress uniform.

John reddened. He grasped for something to say, “I remember when you gave me that milk, that one day— best milk of my life, honestly.” He could have punched himself.

“Ah yes,” Mrs. Holmes broke her long gaze, looking thoughtfully up the hill, “Old Bess could be tempted out of a bit more milk now, if you’d like.”

John thought this was a joke, ”Ha, Old Bess must be quite old by now though, aye? I was what, seven?”

“You were seven.” Mrs. Holmes smiled in agreement.

John flushed, and he didn’t know why. “I was just thinking of the last time I’d been here, for Sherlock’s party, remember? I was just thinking, I wonder how he’s doing. Is he still—where did he go, again?” There was a thought scratching at the inside of his mind, a tear in the fabric.

“He’s still traveling, dear. Don’t you worry.” Her steely eyes met his, and there was a shimmer of something peculiar there, something young and familiar, but then it was gone. “I don’t want to keep you long, but I thought I would come down to see if you’d like any tea—or milk, if you’d prefer.” She must have seen something in John’s face because she continued, “You can stay right where you are, never you fear. I’ll just be up the hill in the cottage, waiting for whenever you’re ready.”

John nodded, “That—that would be lovely, thank you so much.” Mrs. Holmes turned around. “And just tea for me, thanks!” He figured that whether or not Mrs. Holmes was joking about the age of her milking cow, he’d rather not find out. Some things remained best as memories.

Slowly, using his cane to support himself, he lowered himself down onto the grass. He leaned against a large old stone that reminded him of a pirate’s ship, though he couldn’t say why. It was just a stone, and the ocean was just a pond.

Wasn’t it?

           

\--

 

John’s seventh birthday party was a disappointment to everyone involved but John himself. Only one boy from the guest list, Mike Stamford, actually showed up. Mike was a good sport about it, but John could tell how uncomfortable the other boy was sitting at the long lawn table set for fifteen empty chairs. At the other end of the table, John’s little sister Harry giggled to her two friends, both of whom had come over at the suggestion of John’s mother when she realized how much extra cake there was going to be.

  
Following a strained chorus of Happy Birthday and a short-lived attempt at musical chairs, Mike shoved his gift into John’s hands before red-facedly explaining to Mrs. Watson that he had chores to do at home and was expected before dinner. The gift had obviously been wrapped by a fastidious mother, all shiny paper and neat bow. It was probably chosen by one as well. But John didn’t mind. He’d never been close to the boys from his school, though Mike was nice enough in his own way. And John did like the gift, which was a set of toy soldiers that he thought would look quite dashing defending his Playmobil castle.

From his parents John received a remote control car and the complete Chronicles of Narnia. John was ecstatic.  

Harry quickly ran off to hula-hoop with her friends and loudly talk about how sad her brother was. But John didn’t mind this either. In fact, he was quite happy that the whole birthday party nonsense had been a disaster, though he could see how it upset his mother. He quietly helped her fold up the lonely chairs and pack them back in the shed behind the house. Then, he stacked up the unused dishes and carried them into the kitchen from whence they’d come, where he found his mother bent over the sink, shoulders silently shaking.

John hesitated before gently tapping her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” John accepted the hug from his mother with grace. She knelt down so that her face was level with his, and he allowed her to touch her fingers to his cheeks. “Keep your chin up, there’s my beautiful boy.”

“Mum I’m fine. I like being by myself anyhow.” The newly unwrapped Narnia books were sitting on the stairs up to his room, just waiting to be devoured. He smiled into his mother’s eyes, willing the shimmering wetness away from her gaze.

She laughed, but it was a wet gasping sound. “Oh, you’re just my little soldier boy, aren’t you?” Standing up, she banished all visible pity with a quick hand swipe across her eyes. “Off with you then! And I expect you back before dark.”

Grabbing _The Magician’s Nephew_ , John exited the suffocation of the house as his mother packed away the extra cake into the family’s Tupperware containers. She would probably try to convince John’s father to bring it into his work the next day. Mr. Watson had not returned home yet, and John wondered what his mother would tell him about all the uneaten cake.

The Watson home was an old house built on the edge of a large plot of unused land at the outskirts of a small town. They had only moved there a few months before, and John’s father had to travel ninety minutes both ways just to continue working at his office.

Mrs. Watson often complained about its isolation, but that was what John liked most about the house. It did not strike him as lonely, but mysterious. There were so many more places to adventure here, unlike the rigorously boring batch of townhouses they had moved from. There had been nowhere to call his own in those places. Even the walls were too thin for real privacy. He could always hear the television or the vacuum cleaner or angry conversation from just the next room over, and there was never a place for John that was simply _his._

Already John had a favorite hideaway. Book in hand and one of his new soldiers shoved into his pants pocket for company, John picked his way down the gravelly drive away from the house.

If John had been an adult, he knew he would have followed the lane leading away from his house to get where he wanted to go. But John was seven, and knew that following paths was unnecessary. Instead, he cut left from the gravelly strip of the winding drive to clamber over a creek at the bottom of a gully, over a gnarled log that reminded him of a giant’s hand, and beyond the strip of abandoned fence that must have once delineated property lines. He knew exactly where he was going.

           

The ring of grass, when looked at quickly and from afar, did not appear at first as anything special. But the closer one got, the more perfect the grass ring appeared, and all the grass within it, while the grass outside of the ring seemed shabby by comparison. Something about the color and the texture, some indescribable glow. It was the width of about two Johns lying down (John had determined this for himself), and was the softest bed of grass anyone could hope to find. That it was situated in a wooded clearing by an old stump of a well that looked at least a hundred years old only added to its property value in John’s mind.

Flopping onto the grass that was fresher and more welcoming than any other patch of grass, John allowed himself to tilt his head back and soak in the sun. He closed his eyes against the glare, staring at the red insides of his own eyelids, veins a glowing black across his vision. In one hand he clutched his book, while the other reached into his pocket to touch his new toy soldier. The metal felt warm against the dryness of his palm.

Suddenly, John sat up. His eyes opened, vision swimming for a moment in the sudden brightness before refocusing-- but in those moments of disorientation he swore he saw a face. He glanced around the clearing, the face still swimming like a sunspot in his vision.          

“Hello?” John wasn’t afraid, so his voice was strong and clear. He wasn’t afraid, but he was curious. “Hello there?” He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then opened them again very quickly. But the face did not reappear.

It had been that of a young boy, scarcely older than John, with a head of unruly dark curls and eyes that shimmered bright blue from within the shadows of the trees.

 _If I just continue on as I was, like nothing had happened, maybe he will come back._ So John lay back down, lifting the new book over his face with both hands (an awkward position that he would need to readjust countless times in the next hour) and lost himself in the beginning of a new world, one full of magical creatures and evil Ice Queens.

The sun had nearly sunk beyond the tips of the trees, the clearing bathed golden, before anything happened outside of John’s book. But then, just as John’s body was starting to ache from his awkward reading positions, and just as he got to the best bit, the bit about the talking Lion, a voice called to John from beyond the clearing.

“How did you know about my fairy ring?”

It was a young voice, with a proper accent and a touch of royal imperiousness. John, not wanting to startle the voice’s owner, slowly folded one corner of his book’s page on itself and laid it down beside himself in the grass. He did not sit up or turn his head to see who was speaking.

Placing both hands behind his head to form a cradle, John replied, “I didn’t know it was yours to claim!” He sounded surer of himself than he actually was—to be honest, he didn’t even quite know what a fairy ring was, but he supposed it was the perfect circle he now lay in.

“Well of course it’s not really mine but you know you oughtn’t lay there like its yours, it could make everything a bit restless. And it being your birthday today you could very well be inviting trouble.” The voice was moving closer as it talked. John examined the rim of light that still came through the tallest branches of the trees that bordered his vision. He really needed to be headed home soon.

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

“A bit obvious, don’t you think? That book you are reading is brand new, therefore it must be a gift. The clothes you are wearing are a tad too nice for just any other weekday, so that suggests party. It’s not a holiday today, at least not a well known one with a tradition of gift-giving, so this tells me it must be a birthday party. Combine the obvious with the fact that you certainly don’t smell a day over seven suggests that today is, in fact, your birthday.” The voice, which had been moving ever closer during its tangent, stopped.

John couldn’t help it now. He looked over to where the voice stood, his eyes gleaming with excitement, “That was amazing!” He sat up, grinning broadly at the other boy, who stood now just outside of the fairy ring. His pale face was caught in a look of wonder for just a moment, bow shaped lips open in surprise, before he relaxed his small body from its stunned rigidity. John laughed delightedly to finally see the voice materialized. “My name is John Watson, what’s yours?”

The other boy, who didn’t seem much older than John but whose manner suggested that of a pleased schoolteacher, hesitated for only a moment before responding, “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled uncertainly down at John, who was now propped on his elbows.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“Oh, it’s always come natural, I suppose. Though I guess the process of deduction could be taught. It’s no great feat, really.” But Sherlock looked pleased.

“I mean, I didn’t even know you could SMELL years on someone. I mean, no one ever did that in front of me before! Could you show me how?”    

“Well, that’s a bit more than I know I could teach.” Sherlock looked doubtful now, “Maybe Mother could show you, but I’m not sure.”

“Oh, well that’s all right then, I don’t mind. A lot of adults get mad when I try to guess their age, or even ask it.”

The other boy’s brow furrowed, “Well, that’s silly of them.”

John laughed at Sherlock’s perplexed face. He was the most serious looking child he had ever encountered. “Don’t worry about adults, though. I try not to. Do you want to play?”

“Play? Play how?”

John shrugged, “Adventures!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his toy soldier. “Look, I’ve got a toy. Do you have one?”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “Well, I suppose…” Then a thought dawned on him, and he looked suddenly excited, face rewritten with lines of energy. “I know! Follow me, John.”

John clambered to his feet, ready to bound after the other boy, who had already charged into the underbrush. He bent down to pick up his book, and when he looked up Sherlock was standing inches from his face. John almost fell down again in surprise.

“Sorry.” The dark haired boy didn’t look very apologetic. “But I remembered I ought to help you out of the fairy ring. Don’t want anything following, after all.”

John didn’t question it, just accepted the other boy’s small hand in his own. Hands clasped, they exited the grass circle together, and John had the distinct sensation that they had somehow walked from one room into another.

Sherlock and John continued to hold hands as they half ran into the dark of the woods, Sherlock a step faster than John though he was only a little bit taller. After about a minute of their jogging pace Sherlock slowed. It felt as if they were wading into deeper and deeper water, though John knew that didn’t make any sense. 

“Don’t let go of my hand, John.” Sherlock said firmly, and John responded by tightening his hold, Sherlock’s left hand in John’s right.

The pair waded further into the woods, where the light that broke through the tree canopies became more and more scattered, the shadows ever more encroaching. Sherlock was feeling the trunks of each tree now, slim fingers stroking at the gnarled bark. “I know it’s somewhere around here, maybe deeper.” His brow was furrowed, and John felt a thrill as he glanced at the strange boy’s face, whose eyes still seemed lit by an unearthly glow despite the darkness around them. As frightening as the woods around them were, John also knew this was all part of the game of adventures.

“Here we are!” Sherlock said, though where they were standing looked no different from anywhere else they had been before. Still clasping John’s hand, Sherlock knelt on the ground at the foot of a particularly gnarled and old looking tree, reaching his hand into what looked like a series of broken roots. His arm disappeared up to the elbow as he groped in the hole that John had not even realized was there.

“What is it, what are you looking for?” John realized he had been following Sherlock all this time without questioning why, but this thought didn’t perturb him. He felt that walking anywhere with Sherlock would have been worth it, whatever the reason.

“This.” And Sherlock’s arm wrenched back out of the earth. His fingers clutched an object that John couldn’t distinguish at first beneath all the dirt, but he could tell it was small, not much bigger than Sherlock’s palm.

The dark-haired boy frowned at the object before rubbing it down his pant leg and murmuring something under his breath. He lifted it again, holding it up for John’s approval.

It was a small pirate, the size of an adult’s index finger. “A friend for my soldier!” John gasped, laughing. Tucking his book under his armpit, he reached in and pulled the soldier figurine once more from his pocket. The pirate and the soldier were the same size, both brass, and made for each other. Even Sherlock looked shocked, his eyes wide as they held the toys up to each other. A small smile played on his full lips, and John, glancing out of the corner of his eyes at the other’s face, felt his heart pound a beat fiercer because of it.

“Why did you bury him?”

Sherlock was quiet. Tugging on John’s hand, he pulled him back through the heaviness of the forest. As they went, the sunlight returned through the branches, but it was a dim, dying light. Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to John, “We need to be quick, I didn’t think of how late it was getting.”

“I know-- I need to get home before dark.” John agreed, though Sherlock hadn’t looked at him once since they started walking. Sherlock paused for a moment, almost surprised at the voice interrupting his reverie, before continuing. So John squeezed his hand tighter, just as a reminder. Sherlock squeezed back.

John was incandescently happy.

They emerged from the woods, and John looked around in surprise to realize they were on the gravelly lane that he had left so long ago. “Just follow this and you’ll be home in no time.” Sherlock murmured, pointing down the road. He finally let go of John’s hand.

“Can I visit with you again? I want to see more of those woods.” Sherlock looked at John, his eyes sizing him up. John clutched his new toy soldier tightly in his palm, feeling the edges of it cut into his soft skin, before holding it out to the other boy. “We could exchange toys, as like a promise, you know? A promise for more adventures.”

Sherlock stood for a long moment, considering John’s offered toy. He clutched his own toy pirate close to his chest. “I don’t know, I don’t know if it’s safe yet…”

John laughed, not understanding the trepidation in the other’s voice. “I’ll keep it safe, don’t worry!” In a quick motion, he pressed the soldier into Sherlock’s other hand, surprising the boy into holding it. “And I trust you, so there you go!”

After another long moment of consideration, Sherlock held his toy pirate forth. “Yes, it will be all right I suppose.”

“Where do you live, by the way? When do you want to meet up again?” John had never been this excited before to interact with another child his own age, but he didn’t examine that thought. He just felt a rush of excitement at the idea of adventuring with the strange new Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, for his part, was busy examining the soldier toy in his hand. Without taking his eyes off the soldier’s face, he replied, “Oh, at the end of the lane.”

John had not even known there was an end to the lane, had just supposed it turned into another regular road that branched off into more boring neighborhoods. But he supposed he hadn’t lived there long so he shouldn’t be surprised that there were still secrets in this part of the world.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

Sherlock met his eyes again, and that small delicate smile was tugging at his lips. “Yes.”

John grinned broadly, then turned to leave. Behind him, he heard Sherlock’s voice again, “And happy birthday, John!”

He turned to wave his thanks, but the lane behind him was already empty. John supposed he had vanished back into the trees, an unnecessarily mysterious move on the part of the other child. But even now John thought maybe that was what he should expect from now on from a new friend like Sherlock. _His friend, Sherlock Holmes._

John didn’t mind that thought one bit. Tucking the small toy pirate deep into his pocket, he started back toward his house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's been a murder and Sherlock isn't very careful with the fabric of reality.

The next day was a Saturday, which meant that it was the day Mr. Watson made breakfast and let John wake up early to watch cartoons. Later on, this would be one of John’s favorite memories of childhood (after the other memories faded like dreams). The smell of bacon cooking and the opening credits to He-Man playing in the family room at nine in the morning. This was what John would think of while writing his father’s eulogy, just after graduating from medical school.

It’s always the simple things.

But this particular morning, Mr. Watson was not in the kitchen when John came down the stairs.

“Dad?” John called, but not too loud since he knew his mother and sister liked to sleep in. He peeked around the kitchen door out into their drive. His dad’s car was missing. The sky outside was a metallic white, glaring through the morning mists. John squinted and swung the door shut again.

 _Must have gone to the store._ John ran into the family room, afraid he’d miss the opening credits. The telly powered on in time for John to recite along with He-Man, “By the power of Grayskull, I have the power!” as he held aloft an imaginary sword.

There was a loud crash outside. It sounded like a tree falling.

John froze for a split second before he spun away from the telly. He was sprinting back to the kitchen door before he could think twice about it.

To his surprise, the first thing he saw when he opened the door was a slightly disheveled looking Sherlock Holmes. There was a look in Sherlock's eyes that John couldn't decipher, but it seemed urgent. “You’ve got to come with me, John.”

And suddenly, John was pulling on his rain boots—which he always kept by the door—and he was following Sherlock outside and around the house toward the family shed.

“What happened? What was that noise?”

“I had to get here quick, I might have blown a patch in the world’s fabric but that’s nothing some of Mother’s stitching can’t fix.” 

“What? World’s what—Sherlock!” But before John could get the other boy to explain a word, he watched Sherlock disappear into what could only be described as a rip, like in a patchwork quilt when it catches on the edge of a bed and tears in the night. It was pulled across the side of the shed’s red brick wall, a thin slice through reality’s fabric that, if looked at directly, appeared like a narrow silver tunnel. John barely had a chance to process this strange new vision before he was left completely alone, the other boy already vanished. “SHERLOCK!”

John glanced around, wondering where his father was and if he’d get back from the store in time to stop his son from jumping through a rip in the world’s fabric. But no car was pulling up the driveway, and so John squared his shoulders and took off at run into the silvery nothingness that stretched over the shed.

 

“What’s happening, Sherlock?” Stepping through the rip had been like pushing through a bowl of jelly. John still felt a bit sticky all over, to be honest, even though he could see there was nothing on him. Nevertheless, he was beginning to wish he were dressed in something other than his robot-patterned pyjamas and red galoshes. These were not adventuring clothes.

They had pushed through the tear into the clearing where John and Sherlock had first met. Sherlock was pacing frantically. He was dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown, which hung long and black and odd looking on his tiny frame. Still, it swooshed theatrically whenever he made a sharp turn, much to John’s delight. He rounded on John, “There’s been a murder.”

John’s mouth dropped open. He thought of asking Sherlock if this was a new game, but didn’t. The question sounded pointless to his own mind, which made it totally unworthy of voicing to Sherlock. Instead, he cut to the point, “Who and where?”

Sherlock stopped, and looked right at John. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said, sounding embarrassed by this admission.

“What?”

“I know it’s nearby but see, I don’t know exactly all the details, its coming through all fuzzy and Mycroft is away again and Mother fell asleep and its one of those impossible sleeps so who knows if she’ll wake up in five minutes or five months honestly its really inconvenient —“

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock blinked. “Sorry, what?” He wavered a little on his feet, as if he wanted to start pacing frantically again, but John grabbed his shoulder firmly before he could. The other boy stilled, meeting John’s eyes as he did so.

“Why did you take me through that rip?” John didn’t quite understand why they were standing here talking about murders in the first place. “Oughtn’t we call the police or someone?”

“I needed you—“ Sherlock stopped, then started again, “I don’t know exactly where or who or why, but I know someone died this morning, and it had something to do with the flea that followed us back through the forest last night. I needed to find you to make sure you were—“  He stopped again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Sherlock? What do you mean, flea?”

But Sherlock was somewhere else completely. “John, in a few moments your father is going to find the body. Do you know where he is?”

“I know he went out this morning, and took the car with him—I think he needed to go to the store.” John thought for a moment, and then added helpfully, “Probably for milk?”

“Quick, what does his car look like?”

“Er, it’s a red mini, and there’s a scratch on the front bumper that kind of looks like an S…” John tried to visualize the car in his mind as if it was a picture, and thought of it as loudly as he could.

“Perfect!” Sherlock sounded impressed, and John beamed at him. “Now take my hand, John, and keep thinking about that red mini!”

Sherlock reached the hand not already clutching John’s up and pulled. Now there was another rip, this one much neater than the one left at John’s house. It split right down the middle of one of the oak trees lining the clearing.

When they came out the other side, it was to find themselves in the sleepy main thoroughfare of the village. John blinked his eyes several time, feeling oddly carsick.

“Two rips in reality in one morning is a bit much, I admit.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. John, for his part, breathed in and out and calmly waited for his vision to stop swimming.

When the world finally oriented itself, John could see they were in front of the local grocery store, across the street from Power’s Appliances. His dad’s car was parked on the side of the road.

“Hey there it is, that’s the car—“

“Quick John, this way!”

John found himself pulled down the side alley. Pressed against the wall, with Sherlock clutching his hand extra hard as if in warning, John began to truly wonder what had become of his Saturday morning.

“We have to be quiet, we don’t want your father to see us and disrupt the event.”

“The event?”

“When he finds the body!” Sherlock whispered it as if it should have been obvious, but John felt that this was a bit unfair. And now he was officially out in public in his pyjamas, which only added to the insult.

But from the corner of the alley John could see his father exit the grocery store, two brown bags in hand. He quelled the urge to call out to him. It would be too difficult to explain to an adult anyway. As he watched his dad turn the car on and begin to drive away, John wondered if Sherlock really knew what he was doing.

“Uhm, should we follow?”

“No, there’s risk he might see us. But if cut along a side street we might be able to catch up before he really gets out on the main road. And he won’t be on it long, anyway—“ Sherlock stopped. “OF COURSE, the ditch!”  

“What? Sherlock, what are you saying—“

“THIS WAY, JOHN!”

And they were off.

The village center was nothing more than four shops and a pub, so running down the alleys to the outskirts didn’t take long. The countryside was made up of rolling hills and pastures, which Sherlock and John took care to run through in the most indirect parallel to the road possible. As they crested a hill, John saw his dad’s car pull to a screeching stop down the road.

“Sherlock, he stopped!”

“Get down!” Sherlock pulled John alongside him so that they lay at the top of the hill, peering over at the scene below. John watched with fascination as his dad climbed out of the car and rushed to a ditch by the side of the road. There was a muffled curse, a pause, and then his dad was back in the car and performing a u-turn back towards town.

“Perfect, he’s going to find a telephone.”

“Why?”

“To call the police, I explained already—murder, remember?”

“You mean, there’s a body—“

“Quick, we don’t have much time!”

And Sherlock was racing down the hillside toward the patch of road that Mr. Watson’s red mini had recently occupied. John, once more, found himself following.

 

It was by the side of the road. John thought of it as an “it,” though he knew at one point it was a “he.” The body lay like it was sleeping, curled on itself at the bottom of the roadside ditch. John stared, frozen in place.

“That’s—that was Carl Powers. He went to my school, he was a few levels above me.”

“Curious.” Sherlock was already kneeling beside the body, face close to the waxen mask that once was human, now all glassy eyes and blue-tinged skin. The mouth was pressed into the slimy mud, and Sherlock delicately inserted a finger into the thing’s lips to pull them back and bare the dirt stained teeth.

John felt an icy dread settle at the pit of his stomach.

“Interesting… He asphyxiated.”

“What does that mean?”

“Essentially, death by drowning. He ran out of air.”

“How?”

“Imagine trying to breath dirt instead of air—at least, I imagine that’s how the scene played out.” Sherlock grimaced. "There's dark forces at work here." 

All John could see in his mind’s eye was the young Carl Powers writhing on the ground like a fish out of water, gasping for life. He really wished he couldn’t see it quite so clearly. The body was dressed in pyjamas, much like John himself. And he was barefoot. It all was suddenly too horrible for John to stand. He sat heavily in the dirt.

Sherlock continued, “Carl Powers didn’t kill himself, but it was a suicide—of sorts. It’s what I feared; a flea must have followed us back from the in-between place yesterday.”

“Flea?”

“It’s what Mother calls them—a spirit, I guess you might say. And it's trying to give everyone what they want but it’s all wrong, he’s not meant to be here.”

“What they want? Did someone want Carl Powers dead?”

“Evidently.”

“Sherlock—I think I need to—“

Sherlock turned on John with a look of horror on his face. “Oh no, you won’t be sick, will you?”

John shook his head, but as he looked at Sherlock he felt his cheeks flush and a burning sensation pricking at the corners of his eyes. _Oh no, now was not the time to cry. Be a good little soldier, John, come on._

Sirens wailed in the distance. The police were on their way. John sniffed hard, willing himself to calm. But he couldn’t take his eyes off of Carl Powers’ body.

“John.”

John felt a hand grasp his shoulder, pulling him to his feet. He looked up into Sherlock’s blue eyes. “I’ll get you out of here, don’t you worry.”

John shivered. “Not another rip, is it?” He didn’t think he could take another one, the sick feeling in his stomach had not quite gone away.

“Just one more, John, for me.” Sherlock pushed his hand into John’s. “One more, and I promise I’ll show you my ocean.” He took John’s other hand and pressed something hard and warm into his palm.

John closed his fingers around the toy soldier, looking down at the metal face with surprise and a brief surge of delight. Then they were walking, hand in hand, through the gooey silver rip in the hillside as the sirens closed in behind them.

 

On the other side of the rip was the ocean.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sleeps a lot and Sherlock likes pirates. In case that wasn't clear already.

John managed to keep himself from vomiting, but it was a close call. He could barely see where he was before Sherlock was helping him to sit, back against a large outcropping of rocks. John curled in on himself, insides roiling. Oddly enough, his brain could only focus on how hot his feet were inside his rain boots.

“Stay right where you are, John.”

He could barely acknowledge Sherlock’s voice, only watch the retreating night gown wave in the breeze, a dark smudge moving up a hill. John held onto the soldier in his hand as if it was an anchor keeping him tethered to earth. He closed his eyes, wondering why he couldn’t hear the waves if he was indeed by an ocean.

Eyes still closed, he set his other hand down on the ground, stroking a tuft of grass. _Where’s the sand?_

John opened his eyes again for a moment and tried to focus through the dizziness. He had holidayed in Brighton and knew what an endless expanse of water looked like, stretching towards the sky. But most of what he could see was very green.

Maybe that was the sickness talking.

Several long minutes later John heard a female voice, like rolling thunder, approach. “And you think you can just rip through anyone’s reality like its arts and crafts at the local church, do you? Pulling a human through three in one day, who even knows what could have happened—be grateful his essence hasn’t _eroded_ in the past five minutes alone—“

The voice stopped suddenly, a shadow cast over John as he blearily opened his eyes. “Sherl—Sherlock?”

“Hush now, keep your eyes closed tight—it will all be all right.”

There was a finger, long and calloused, tracing it’s way down John’s cheek. _Where’s Sherlock, he said he’d take me to the ocean…._ But John was sinking, down and down into the darkness of sleep.

 --

When he awoke, it was to find himself in a large four-poster bed, a thick quilt smelling of warm cinnamon pulled up to his chin. Slowly, John sat up. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to falling asleep in one place and waking up in another—his dad often carried him to bed when he fell asleep reading on the porch at home. But this wasn’t his room. Where was he?

There was something familiar about the place, all the same, though John couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. The room was small, the walls cozy and decorated with pictures straight out of a storybook. How had he fallen asleep, he didn’t remember falling asleep…

“Hello, love,” an elderly woman dressed in a dark blue dress entered the room, a mug in hand. “I brought you some milk, if you’d like. Something for the stomach after all that ripping about.”

“Thank you very much,” John said, because that is what one was meant to say to kind elderly women when they hand you things (even if they are nasty butterscotch candies that come in the weird, unlabeled wrappers). But the milk did sound appealing, so he felt less like he was pretending.

“You’ll remember what happened soon enough, but I suppose I should let you know that you came here with my boy, Sherlock, and are staying in his room while we get you feeling better after a bit of an upset, if that’s all right with you.” The woman was kind, if a bit brisk. Her eyes were a light blue that shimmered just the way—

“Sherlock!” John gasped. “Where is he?” He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t thought of Sherlock as soon as he awoke, after all John had just been waiting for him by the ocean-that-wasn’t only a moment before. Something bad had happened, he remembered that—there had been police sirens, and a face tinged blue in the mud…

“Hush now, drink up—Sherlock is only in the next room over, I made him wait outside while you get yourself situated.”

John really looked at the woman for the first time, taking in her calming gaze and white hair pulled back into a strict bun. “Are you Sherlock’s mother?”

The woman laughed at John’s directness, turning her back on John with a playful wink as she walked towards the door, “You could say that.” And she was gone. He shook his head, not understanding what was happening.

A face peered through the open door, hesitant blue eyes meeting John’s curious ones. “John?”

“Sherlock!” John felt immense relief at the other boy’s presence. He smiled at Sherlock as he entered the room and crossed to the bed.

Sherlock, for his part, looked embarrassed, his eyes studying the floor intently. He opened his mouth and closed it several times before blurting out, “I suppose I owe you an apology.” He looked up at John. “I understand if you are done with our adventures.” His words sounded painfully rehearsed.

There was a long pause while John sipped his milk, gazing at Sherlock. Then John gasped, and took another gulp from his mug. He looked up at Sherlock again, “This milk is really good.”

“What?”

“I’ve never had milk like this. It’s warm and sweet—I’m used to the watery stuff that’s cold and kept in our refrigerator.”

Sherlock cocked his head at John, “How odd!”

“Where do you get your milk from?”

Smiling now, a hopeful look in his eye, Sherlock mustered a reply. “Well, we have old Bess, you see—she’s a milking cow. Mother must have just paid her a visit, that seems fresh stuff you have there…”

“I’ve never had fresh milk from a cow!” John paused again to take another long sip. He looked at Sherlock, and there was a white rim of milk lining his top lip. “What do you think? Mustache!”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but then started laughing at the comically wounded look on John’s face. John licked his lips to clean them, smiling stupidly the whole time. It was a dumb joke but Sherlock’s evident joy was worth it.

When Sherlock had calmed down enough to look John in the eye again, John ventured another question. “How long was I asleep?”

“Well, you passed out around 10:17 AM this morning… it’s about tea time now, so less than five hours.”

“What?” John smacked the mug of half-finished milk onto the bedside table, scrambling to slide his feet onto the ground as he did so. His legs were weak, but held beneath him as he stood up, looking wildly about for his boots. “I need to get home—my parents had no idea I was going out this morning, what are they going to think—“

A hand pressed the middle of his chest, pushing him back to sit on the bed. “It’s all right, John. We can take care of it.” Sherlock sat down with John, and so they sat side-by-side on the bed, John breathing heavily. He didn’t think he could explain to the grown-ups what had happened this morning, and his dad did hate it so when he disappeared without telling anyone.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment as John breathed unsteadily next to him, though he leaned his shoulder briefly against the other boy’s in what John took to be a show of solidarity. He appreciated it.

John was trying not to imagine the look of displeasure on his dad’s face when he next saw him. And, to make matters worse, he had missed breakfast with him, the best time of the week with his father…

Sherlock interrupted John’s thoughts with a question, “Have you ever heard of Captain Kidd?”

John was taken aback, but nodded uncertainly. “Yeah, the name sounds familiar, like from a story book… he’s a pirate, yeah?” His dad’s frowning face still loomed large in his mind.

Sherlock nodded, staring distantly at the wall opposite him, “Well, legend has it that years ago, when the United States was still part of the Commonwealth, he sailed ashore at a small beach off the Jersey coast.” John glanced sideways at Sherlock, but the boy didn’t look at him, continuing in a strange, faraway voice. “He knew the law was on his tail, and so, with only a few days head start on his own death, he decided to bury his treasure on the beach there. Only a young girl saw the pirates disembark onto the beach late one night, their fearsome silhouettes outlined by fiery torches. She had been collecting seashells, but hid in the trees when she heard the men approach. And so it was that the girl came to tell her folks the next day how Captain Kidd and his pirate crew had spent hours digging through the night. By dawn they were gone, but weeks on not a night went by that there weren’t locals shoveling hopefully through the dirt and sand to find the treasure all had presumed was buried there.”

Sherlock’s voice was a comforting monotony, and John found himself calming despite himself. His head sank down onto the other boy’s shoulder, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. Sherlock was far away by this point, across an ocean and several centuries of time…

“Kidd was executed not two full months later. By that time, the once lovely shorefront had been absolutely ravaged by treasure seekers. All trees and foliage had been burnt down to open up space for shovels. The countryside surrounding it was reduced to craters of dug up earth. By the time the girl was a young woman, there was nothing left of the spot save a few stunted trees, some wind-swept grass, and on certain dark nights, Dem Bones.

“Dem Bones was the skeletal crew of Captain Kidd. They sailed up the shore in a ship made of shadows and at the darkest moment of night, made anchor. Two or three boats would lower from her side, filled up with glowing skeletons wearing cocked hats and tattered buccaneers garb. Around their waists were belts full of pistols and long cutlasses.”

John could see the shores of the Atlantic Ocean now, traced like a negative on the wall across from them. He could practically smell the saltwater and hear the cries of gulls in Sherlock’s words. All thoughts of his dad were forgotten, replaced by the strange undead pirate crew.

“Dem Bones would carry heavy trunks full of treasure onto the shore and scatter them all around the place where the pine grove once stood. Then the pirate crew hauled out kegs and kegs of whiskey and one of the skeletons would take out a fiddle. A phantom fire would light on the sand, and Dem Bones started singing and dancing, enough noise to wake the dead—if they weren't already awake. When they were exhausted from the dancing, the glowing skeletons collapsed on the sand and started telling stories about the ships they had captured and the treasures they had amassed.

“One night the very same woman who had once been a little girl so many moons ago, who had first seen the pirates in the flesh on her shores, overheard the voices in the night telling the tall tales of their pirating adventures. By this time she was an old woman and did not fear the dead. So she approached Dem Bones, crossing through the shadowy beach and stepping boldly into the light cast by their phantom fires.”

John closed his eyes, turning his face into Sherlock’s neck. He sighed into the curls there. Sherlock started, but then relaxed and continued. “When she stepped into the firelight, all Dem Bones became silent.” He reached a hand up to touch John’s cheek, as if affirming that he was really there.

“She took a breath, and said, ‘All you bones, you been coming here since I was a girl. But why did you come here in the first place, if there never was a treasure buried in the sand?’ But the skeletal crew only roared with laughter, and the lights of the phantom fire flickered as she stared about her. The shadows held up their ghostly treasure and said, ‘Look, we have our treasure here. Where else would it be?’”

John inhaled the scent of Sherlock, in and out, in and out. He felt heaviness in his limbs and battled valiantly to listen to the end of Sherlock’s story. He was so good at telling stories, better than anyone John’s age…

“Just as the woman opened her mouth to correct them and ask for the _real_ treasure, the first rays of dawn began to break over the ocean horizon. Like clouds of smoke blown away in the wind, the crew vanished with day. The old woman returned home to tell her story and then passed away that very evening. And ever since the people of the town looked out their windows for Dem Bones, and listen for the fiddle music that would play only in the very dead of night.”

John sighed as sleep closed about him once more, imagining he could hear the distant music.

Sherlock smiled to himself before he gently maneuvered the now sleeping John back onto the bed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, John,” he whispered, tucking the quilt back up to John’s chin. “I have some rips to mend.”

He exited the room and reentered with a sewing kit in hand. Pulling out some patches, he began working them into the fabric of the quilt at the foot of the bed. As he mended the fabric with new pieces of reality, John slept soundly. Sherlock tried not to listen to John’s dreams, but he smiled as he caught a brief glimpse.

John dreamed of pirates.

\--         

           

By the time John woke again there was golden light streaming through the crack in the curtain by his bed. He got to his feet and looked out at the sunset behind the rolling hills, a scene lined by the edges of a distant, dark forest.

There were voices raised just the next room over, and John tiptoed to the door to hear what was being said. One voice was clearly Sherlock’s, and it sounded defensive against an unfamiliar, older male voice.

“—honestly, Sherlock, you know you should never have been that deep in the first place, especially to dig up something so trivial. There’s a reason it was buried, you know.”

“How was I to know the flea would be _there_ , of all places?”

“Bringing a human there, however, is something you _did_ do, and knowingly.”

“John is my friend.” John couldn’t suppress a proud smile as he leaned against the wooden door, trying to comprehend what was being said on the other side. It was something bad, he could tell.

“Is this how friends treat each other? You are lucky it’s not the young Watson that the police found drowned in a ditch by the side of the road—“

“You think I don’t know that?” Sherlock’s voice sounded even younger than usual; there was a high-pitched whimper of fear accentuating his sharp intake of breath.

Silence. John tried not to breathe too loud, leaning his ear right up against the crack in the doorway.

John heard the man sigh, “You must grow up eventually, brother dear. And learn to listen for when your human _friend_ wakes up and starts eavesdropping by our door…” The voice trailed off lazily as John’s heart leapt into his throat, and he took a step back just as the door swung open to show a wild-eyed Sherlock. Beside him, a tall brown-haired man with a beaked nose and a bent smirk waved a long black umbrella handle in greeting.

“Ah, awake just in time for dinner, I see?” John accepted the handshake of the older man warily, glancing at the red-faced Sherlock as he did so. He hated how unhappy his friend looked. “Mycroft Holmes, at your service.”

“John Watson,” John replied shortly, looking up distrustfully at the well-dressed man. He straightened and attempted to look as intimidating as he could in his robot pajamas. “And you should bugger off and leave Sherlock alone, if you know what’s good for you.”

Mycroft smiled, “Such an eloquent young friend you have, Sherlock. Newly seven and already with a stunted vocabulary and a misplaced sense of loyalty.” He chuckled and walked off into another room, humming pleasantly to himself as he did so.

Sherlock looked at John with awe. “Why did you say that?”

“Because he was making you feel bad. And we’re mates, right? That’s what mates do.”

“Mates?”

“Friends.”

Sherlock grinned, and John returned it toothily. Oddly enough, ever since waking for a second time John had stopped worrying about how his parents would react to his long absence from home, and had stopped seeing Carl Powers’ staring eyes in the corners of his vision. He felt happy and at peace, as if something torn inside him had been mended.  

“Dinner?” Sherlock nodded into the next room.

“Starving.”

Whatever trouble was following them, John was confident that he and Sherlock could set it all right.


End file.
